


Audiophile

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [6]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Grinding, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pole Dancing, Undercover, Wall Sex, except its the same universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl bothers Jazz at work for once.(Jazz is far, far more on board that Prowl has ever been with the opposite.)





	Audiophile

 

This time the field was to be a particularly insalubrious club, which flirted heavily across the line between exotic dancing and straight-up brothel and was well known to be a hive of Decepticon activity. This infiltration mission demanded a certain level of personal sacrifice that Jazz disliked asking of his own mechs, so he had had little option but to accept his fate and prepare for the mission personally.

Many ‘cons - especially rankers - would recognise Jazz by sight of course, but adaptability was his main stock in trade. So he had traded his battle grade armour for a lighter civilian grade, painted over his black,white and blue with a miscellaneous bronze colour that had Sunstreaker retching in disgust, and changed the LEDs of his visor to a pale green. Even his alt form had been adapted: a flirtier little convertible model rather than his normal high powered racer. 

Many of his fellow Autobots had failed to recognise him after all of that effort, so he considered it well spent.

Dressed up, he changed the designation on his comms, saluted cheekily at the colleagues that still recognised him and went off to have fun.

For a few orns  he played around some cheap dance clubs in Kaon; hopped on a few stages, grinded a lot of mechs on dancefloors. Success was marked when a talent scout had offered to buy him a drink and then offered to buy him for the night as well. He had left with an invitation to his target club and most of the scout’s wallet secreted in his subspace. 

With the employment chip clenched in his fist, Jazz had presented himself to the stage door of the club. The owner, a huge industrial hauler model, had been less than pleased at the interruption, but Jazz had giggled and pouted and flirted frantically to earn his chance to ask for a job. He claimed experience dancing in clubs in Polyhex and Praxus, tried to suggest he was better than his nondescript appearance would suggest. In the end, he had gone down to his knees in front of the mech and begged.

The owner had sneered at the mech in front of him but in the end he had waved a dismissive servo at one of the poles on the stage. Jazz had gone to work, like only he could; he was after all a performer at heart. Music, acting, dance - it was all the same, an excuse to let his chaotic energies loose and play.

He had swung up onto the pole, ignoring the unusual bright lights and lack of music and just danced. When the beat thumping in his processor had faded he had found himself venting hard, paint scraped from his gyrations, and the club owner and his entourage watching him with hungry optics. 

He had hopped down from the stage and half splayed himself against a barstool to ostensibly catch his vents but mostly display his bumper to the best effect. The club-owner had advanced and reached out, brushing at the light paint shavings where he had rubbed hard on the pole in a manner far too familiar for a stranger. 

"What did you say your designation was?" The brush brieftly became a grope around the more malleable plastesteel of his bumper. Jazz gaped momentarily at the nerve, but his cover would never dare to speak up. 

"Foxtrot," he had warbled instead, pushing into the touch.

"Let's think of somethin' better," said the club-owner with another too-friendly squeeze. "Somethin' sexy to match those moves."

* * *

Because Jazz is Jazz, even when he was 'Topaz' instead, he had made himself popular at the club. The clientele love him on the stage or the floor; more than a few request his company in a backroom or a berth, and Jazz likes an interface so he allows the odd strategic dalliance. Any punter in his berth is a ‘con or Neutral with information to unwittingly lose, or a heavily disguised Autobot to pass the information to in turn. 

Jazz is rather curious to find out how the credits for his prostitution are being recorded in the Autobot ledgers. He hopes they aren't paying out of pocket - Topaz isn't a cheap lay.

In turn the club owner liked his newest employee, mostly due to the uptick in earnings. Within the orn, Jazz has been fitted with a newer, thin and sleek armour plating, impractical but sexy as hell, in a handsome bronze that shone iridescently until the low light of the stage. He has also been granted his own series of posters, plastered across the alley walls of Kaon as bait for new guests, showing him in lewd positions that he suspects he'll never live down when he gets back to the Autobots. 

At least his current audience is appreciative. 

Tonight starts as a normal night, the dancers clustering together in the back rooms to get ready for their performances or their time to stalk the floor. 

Jazz finishes rubbing polish onto one of his thighs, angling his legs to check for streaks down to his pedes. Behind him one of his fellow dancers is helping polish his back, rubbing the wax on with practised strokes. Finally, the mech decides his job is complete and gives him a push to send him scuttling onto the next stage of preparation. 

This is mostly glitter-based, gold and crimson flakes to highlight the prominence of his bumper and painted in lines down his belly to highlight the flex and bend of his tight abdominal plates. The glitter is nearly finished, so he takes the last spare servofuls and draw digit lines down his thighs, centring at the wide gaps of his flexible hip joints. The club owner, stalking amid his dancers like a moving monolith, pauses long enough to snatch the rest and clap a nice servo print across Jazz' aft. 

"Lookin' hot," he chuckles and smears a trace of glitter across a lax lower lip. Topaz giggles back outwardly, but inside Jazz seethes and thinks of his energon dagger, tucked in a hidden subspace.

As far as undercover jobs go, Jazz considers his current posting among the better. And sure it wasn’t the font of inside information that anybot had hoped it would be, but it was a steady flow of minor tips that Jazz didn’t have to slit anyone's cables for.  He knew already there were two high ranking seekers in the audience, a couple mid-ranking Constructicons. He couldn't miss the chance to get what information he could from them.

Stabbing the club-owner would therefore have to wait. 

So instead he sighs and sets to helping his colleagues get ready instead. The garishness of the designs vary from mech to mech, and he finds himself knelt on the floor drawing curlicues down the back of someone's thighs in neon paint when his comms beep. Jazz jerks, and hurriedly babbles a mollifying excuse as he wipes the resulting streak away. 

The comms beep again. He sends a busy glyph in return. 

A third time. And a fourth. By the fifth he’s starting to feel put upon and the dancer he had been helping is giving him a dark look. 

_what?_ he demands, internally paying more attention. The attempted comm connection is not using his cover's details, but Jazz' own. _who is this?_

There's a long pause, where Jazz wonders if his brusqueness has scared the other off, but then he receives a set of glyphs, with a prelimary tag marking them as a designation. Unlike his own - which mean  _ music, spontaneity  _  - these mean  _ hunter, thorough, stealth _ .

His Prowl. A bolt of affection courses through his spark, like the pleasant burn of a mouthful of engex. 

_long time, no talk_ he answers instead, stepping away from the preparations to fiddle with an armour catch. _what do I owe the pleasure to?_

_a mech cannot come visit a friend?_ 

_funny, Prowler_ But he feels a little more secure. His immediate concern had been that he had been compromised, or was about to be. If Prowl was attempting a joke then he was relatively safe. His digits drift away from the secret hatch where his stashed blade rested. 

_I have been compiling the information that you have elicited_ Prowl says matter of factly. _I thought I should visit the source personally_

_you wanted to see me dance_ accuses Jazz mildly.

The comm goes silent for a moment and then, _Smokescreen gave rave reviews_ 

The act before him - pretty aerials painted in contrasting patterns - bounce through the curtains, and the stage manager collars Jazz to line him up next. 

_of course he did. I'm top billin' for a reason _

* * *

Jazz has bribed the DJ with a painful percentage of his earnings to play his chosen playlist -  big bass heavy numbers with thumping rhythm lines, songs that a mech could frag to the beat of. 

He knows this from experience. 

Now the DJ makes the announcement that the time has arrived to see the hottest piece of metal in town. The scattered cheers and whistles die away at the first thump of the bass line, and Jazz steps out onto the stage. 

No one could argue that he wasn't the sexiest damn mech in the joint. He pauses briefly in the glow of a spotlight, before striding on, letting them enjoy his swagger for a few moments before he broke out the big guns.

He struts a slow loop around the pole, digits trailing softly on the surface, looking back as if he was tempting a lover. He always earned more tips on the nights he imagines a mech standing there, watching for his seduction. Tonight, with a true audience to flirt for, he suspects he'll earn the most he has for a while yet.

At the first drop of the bass, he lets himself fall back against the pole, leaning into it and humming softly.  At the second thump he drops into a tight squat and then shimmies upwards, reaching back like he was bracing on a strong frame 

The aim of the game is to make every other bot  in the place wish they were that imaginary lover, and the other half just wish they were him.

He hooks a thigh up, like curling a leg across a lover's hip and tips back, like he was bent over for a mate to press kisses across his bumper. When he slithers out of the dip he presses his back to the pole again, running servos up his belly and chest like this imaginary lover groping his chassis. 

He could feel the thrum of attraction in the room already. 

_beautiful_ murmurs Prowl suddenly. Jazz jolts slightly; he had forgotten the mech was even there, carried away by the music.

He pivots and poses for a moment, to hide he had lost the rhythm of the song, shows off the curve his back can achieve, the size of his headlights. He's more prepared when Prowl's glyphs slither into his comms the next time.

_surely they are not paying you enough_ 

The music hits its zenith. He twists and grabs the pole and performs a lazy spin, leaving his grip lose so he sinks to the stage again. This time he splays a thigh up the length of the pole, just as a taster to his flexibility, and then rolls to his knees again. 

_I do like you on your knees_ says Prowl, almost companionably. 

A mech near the stage waves a credit chip in the air, and Jazz keeps his knee plates well polished enough to perform an easy slide across the lacquered floor. He rewards the payment with a close up view of his aft - worth the payment even if he says so himself - and lets the mech's digits linger when he slips the credit chip into the armour gap at his hip. 

_those rates you charge for your company are far too cheap_ 

Jazz feels his energon heat with a strange combination of embarrassment and arousal. Of course Prowl is the one expensing the credits for his prostitution. Some aspect of this arrangement is delightful.

As he shimmies to his pedes again, he performs a little slight of servo to make the subspacing of the chip look like a sensual caress. Across the stage a minicon is waving another chip frantically, and chuffs in happy little engine revs when Jazz presses his bumper to his face. 

Jazz grins as the DJ cues up the next song -  a little more upbeat and quicker, ideal for grinding his gears on a pole. He allows himself a couple beats of sexy strutting to get the rhythm into his processor and then hops up. 

This is the hard bit, to be in control but effortless, sexy and elegant while testing the limits of his flexibility. Jazz likes a challenge; it’s why he’s the best at what he does. He spirals into a tight loop first of all, something easy to whet the appetite. 

_look how well you move_ sighs Prowl. _you are _something_..._ 

This time he transitions into the splits, hitching his thighs out easily.

_I can see all your hip cables, you little flirt_

Jazz curls out of a tight spin to stretch a long leg out and highlight the gaps in his armour. He runs a digits along the thigh rim of his hip joint, just to tease and hear the hiss of static from the comm. 

_perhaps you could keep this armour for personal use?_ 

Jazz laughs, uncontrolled, and clenches a thigh around the pole so he curves down, dropping his arms to lengthen the angle of his frame. 

_you gorgeous thing_

From here, as the spin slows and the waxed surface of his thighs slip down the pole he can brace his palms on the stage and unhook himself. For a moment he stays in the helmstand, and then rolls out into a picture perfect pose on the edge of the stage. 

Some poor aerial type - one of the Coneheads harem - is watching open-mouthed from the closest VIP booth. He looks stunned and lovesick and far too naive to be sitting where he is, half in Ramjet's lap and ogling some sexy little grounder. 

"Not gonna buy me a drink?" Jazz teases. The aerial sputters and chokes, his engines making a noise like a rotor chewing on a wrench. Jazz giggles amid the unpleasant chuckles at the aerial's expense. "Aw never mind, sweetspark, happens to the best of us." 

Nearly magenta with embarrassment, the mech heaves himself off Ramjet's lap and flees. Jazz would feel bad, but if he could spare one idiotic little neutral from getting sucked into this war then a little humiliation was a small price to pay. 

_we will have to redefine your skill set_ says Prowl.

_don't think it’s possible to offline someone outta embarrassment, Prowler_

Jazz accepts a cube of energon from a passing waiter and sips it slowly. Two aerial femmes, these ones with sloppily painted sigils on their stubby wings, have already climbed onto Ramjet's lap. He adjusts the saturation on his visor so he can capture ID photos of their faces.

_if it works it works_ 

_so practical, Prowler_ 

* * *

He dances his set with filth whispered into his comms, glyphs practically crystalising with lust. It's torture and inspirational all at the sametime  and soon his subspace is bristling with credit chips as respect to how raunchy he has gotten. 

As the mix rolls into his next song, he performs a set of splits that garners a few catcalls and then shivers at the whisper through the comms. 

_I want you so badly_ Prowl's glyphs are laden with lust. Jazz grinds a little harder on the pole until he kicks up sparks with his enthusiasm. This also earns him some shouts, but he's only got audials for the thump of the bass and the wicked voice ripping his self-control to shreds inside his comm suite.

-I want to touch you. I want to shove you against that pole and pin you in place, every inch of you pressed up against me_

He spins out of his routine and presses his back to the pole, as if it were actually happening. Mm, yes, Prowler's servos would start at his waist and trail down, shiver through the cables of his hips, or maybe curl up over his bumper.

_the nanoklik I get you alone I'm going to make you sob my name_

Jazz groans, out loud and wholly broken. He would do it here and now if wouldn't get him slagged. The idea of having to wait until whatever time this mission concluded to finally get a taste of what Prowl has been offering is no less than torture.

Although...

He's not Jazz, he's some overcharged pretty piece of glitter, apparently ready and willing to go to berth with any mech. And Prowl cannot be Prowl if he's actually in the building somewhere, but one of the ogling, hungry customers.

And this is definitely the sort of club that encouraged the punters to supplement the dancers’ income with some extra activities. 

The thought makes Jazz shimmy with delight: he’s going to find Prowl and he’s going to make the slagger choke on his own filthy ideas.

_don't you want you touch this?_ He bends nearly in half and claps a servo over the glitter print on his plating, so its obvious the servo that left it couldn't be his own. 

There is a brief silence and then a glyph meaning  _ jealousy _ . 

_what an aft you have. whose servoprint is that?_

Jazz shivers at the audible lust. It blends neatly with the bass of the next song. _the owner of this joint_ 

_he's scum_ Prowl's voice is stern, monotone and devastatingly sexy. Jazz bows forward to touch his own ankles, shimmy his aft a little more. _you frag him yet?_ 

_big spike, no clue how to use it. just plugs in and plays_

_he's not your only conquest_

_you know it_ He slips down to the floor, arching his back up in a perfect curve. When he rolls to his back his thighs splay wide for the crowd. Ugh, he's so hot for this - if any other mech were watching he'd be as close to  ashamed as he ever had been. As it is, there's extra shimmer over the edge of his pelvic plate by now; a few sets of optics glow brighter to see a little clearer. 

_how many in this room have you fragged?_ 

Jazz glances around  the shadowy figures, half hidden in the dry fog and the dim red  lights. There are seekers here, some Constructicons, a shuttle, myriad lower ranking 'con soldiers and loosely allied neutrals. The numbers add up.

In the corner he can make out a familiar frame; Smokescreen's traditional disguise. He can't spot Prowl, but then again it would be too risky for such a recognisable frame to be out undisguised.

_aw mech, ya don't wanna know_

_any of them as good as me?_

_not even close_  He trails a servo across his pelvic plate, humming at the rush of pleasure that scores his systems, lets himself linger for a moment before he rolls onto his front. _ya know you're my favourite_

_you look like you are begging for someone to come mount you here and now_

_that's the whole point Prowler_ He juts his aft up a little more and then splays his thighs, the up and down bob  of his hips like a bot working their valve on a spike. He clenches his valve calipers, and chokes at the feedback that races through his pelvic array, his frame lighting up with preliminary charge even with little stimuli. 

_would you let them?_

_only you. you'd give 'em a show. show 'em what a pro can do with a hot tight frame like me_

_I would wreck you_  Prowl sounds smug. _ I would have you howling my name_

He grinds down extra filthy, kicking up sparks on the floor as he shimmied his hips hard. Prowl was right after all, he's on the verge of howling already.

_come do that on my spike_

_ooh I would love to. gotta make yourself known though_

_and give away the game?_

_ain't gonna get your array wet if you don't give me a clue_

_I could get off watching you like this_

_not as fun though_

Prowl goes silent for a moment and then Jazz gets a directional ping. Over to the right side of the stage then, near where the disguised Snokescreen was knocking back another highgrade with a stunned look in his optics. 

Jazz spotted him from his vantage on the stage, a big broad grounder - a civilian muscle car frame, black paint streaky and mismatched. Otherwise  he was Jazz' type: handsome angular face, broad across the shoulders and narrow through the hips, looked like he was a fast ride. He was leant against the wall, in a pointedly nonchalant way even as the air around his vents shimmered with the heat blowing out of his core. 

It was so patently obviously a disguise, no mech would look at that shoddy attempt and think much of it. Perhaps he was a neutral out at a club his conjunx would disapprove of, or hanging out with friends he shouldn't have. Not a high ranking Autobot, blatantly standing in a Decepticon dance club like he hadn't a care in the world.

_come get me then_ 

The next beat is a cover to stalk the club floor, long slinking strides, pausing to get up and personal with a few lucky patrons, just enough so what he was going to do to Prowl when he found him look normal. 

He grinds up against a minibot, gives a truckformer a taster of a lapdance and trails flirty digits across Smokescreen's headlights in passing. He can hear the mech's high performance engine roar at the attention, so he curls a bit closer and grinds up tighter. Smokescreen makes a noise like tyre deflating, but Jazz is casting a look over his own shoulder, with higher priority targets in mind.

Prowl's yellow optics meet Jazz' visor, pointedly looking him up and down and then dropping him a slow wink, a smirk curling out his lips.. The slagger! Jazz gives poor flustered Smokescreen  another couple beats of attention and then shimmies out of his reach, blowing a kiss as compensation. 

With a goal in mind, he swaggers  across the floor, pausing at intervals to shake a hip or jiggle his bumper for a particular tempting looking credit chip to reserve a bit of time. His last song is a banger, one he had previously ridden Prowl's spike to to great effect, pulsing the bass out through his thigh speakers. Now he cues the song internally at the same beat the DJ always mixes in on and finds himself face to face with his target just as the click and boom of the bass shakes his frame.

It is gratifying to see the mild terror on Prowl's face plates. 

_ am I ever gonna make you regret teasin’ me?_ 

* * *

Even shoddily disguised, Jazz knows his Prowler's frame like the back of his own servo. He knows what points make his lover squirm, how to touch him to get him exactly where Jazz wants him to  be. He also, happily, knows the perfect areas to please himself, where he can hitch himself up against and grind on get his own bolts off. 

With his skimpy armour on it’s even easier.to get up close and personal with Prowler's frame, shimmying up against him to the pulse of the bass. He starts with a soft twirl, to shove his aft up into Prowl's pelvic plate, reaching back to caress the mech's waist as he did so; through his plating he can already feel the heat and rumble of Prowl's lust. He bumps back a few times, until he elicits a grunt from his target and a mercy glyph from his comms. Big servos grip his hips as if to try to atop him. 

"Oh no," he says out loud, "Servoss off the merchandise." Each digit peels itself away reluctantly, so Jazz can begin his sinuous movements again. He touches himself now, in the way he knows Prowl wants to so badly, swivelling around and hooking himself over a big strong thigh as he gropes his own bumper. 

His external pelvic plating has only a little give in it to protect the array below, but Jazz is so charged up that even the fleeting flex is delicious. He grinds down hard on Prowl's thigh, sighing appreciatively when there's a counter pressure shoving up against him. 

It scrapes the hell out of his plating to grind down but the sensation is definitely worth it. There’s no hiding what he's doing either for the shower of sparks glows bright in the murk of the club. The audience seems divided in whether to watch or not - this is raunchy even for the club's public standards, but many are happy to leer or at least watch open vented. 

_you'll be the death of me_moans Prowl over the comm. 

Sparks kick up, and the sting on his outer plating is extra delicious, a sweet counterpoint to the ache behind his panel. If he hitches his own thigh a bit further forward then Prowl might get something more out of it, but Jazz is feeling selfish and mildly vengeful. 

_is this a normal part of the set?_ queries Prowl, servos hovering over Jazz' tight waist, scant distance stopping him from breaking club rules. 

_only if there’s a real hot piece of aft in the audience_  He arches back to show off the curves of his bumper, forced to brace more of his weight on his pelvic plate.

_incorrigable_ Prowl layers the glyph with low sultry tones. _show me how much you want my spike then_

Jazz  _ wants _ it.

The temptation is too great to resist; the bump of the bass line through his pelvis shivering his sensors internally, like a lover caressing him from inside, that no external pressure he has managed matches. With his arms cast over Prowl's broad shoulders, cheap black paint flaking onto his forearms, Jazz leans in close, until their frame are also indistinguishable and Prowl's starstruck expression is the only thing he can see. He almost giggles, but the noise that is torn out of him as his panel finally slips back is closer to a sob. His hips jerk down and his valve grinds along the firm, strong thigh between his own. Ohhh, it feels  _ good _ . 

_you better have a backroom available in this dump_ growls Prowl _because the nanoklik you are done here, your valve is mine_

That big thigh presses up tightly against him, almost ruining his obedient undulation to the beat by pressing up hard against his anterior node. The blunt pressure is almost agonising, just the wrong side of too hard and Jazz' speakers abruptly spit static as he overloads then and there. 

Static spits from his speakers, probably audible to the closer clients, but Jazz can’t bring himself to care. Nor does he really care to finish off his dance, just braces a servo on Prowl’s poorly painted chest and slides his panel shut before anyone else gets a proper opticful.  

"Ten thousand credits for the rest of your evening'" murmurs a stranger's voice from beautifully familiar lips. Jazz' comms ping with the same invitation, glyphs carefully arranged to display the seething lust. 

"For you, I think it'll be free," he murmurs and takes the mech by the servo.

Other patrons whistle and leer as Jazz leads his client across to the jewelled curtain separating the rooms from the floor. Some reach out and slip credit chips into the gaps of his armour, and he palms half to drop into the DJs servos as he passes. 

He yanks Prowl through into the backrooms, down one of the warren of corridors and presses him up against a wall to kiss him hard. A pair of waiters on break whistle and mock cheer at them, but Jazz flips them a rude gesture and Prowl tosses a credit chip at them, so they swagger on. 

Prowl flips them so he is able to press his now heavier bulk into Jazz' frame, pin him up against the wall and trap him so his pedes just lift off the floor. Jazz goes as bidden, looping his legs about a narrow waist and dangling his arm over broad shoulders again, missing being able to play with widespread door wings like he normally would. His pelvic array still crackles with the  last of his charge, and Prowl shivers at the contact against his own pelvic plates. 

Just because Jazz is pinned to the wall doesn't mean he can't run their clinch just as easy as if he had been perched on top of Prowl's chest plates. He pops his interface panels aside, shivering at the cooler air on the protoform of his soaking valve, and free one servo to creep down Prowl's chest, abdomen, to where their bodies press tightest. With one delicate digit he carefully flicks open one catch to the mech's pelvic plate.

"Pop that panel for me," he says, low and sultry. "I'm so wet for you, so charged up, I'm gonna feel amazin’ around that thick spike of yours." He kicks his heel lightly against Prowl's thigh, digit tracing over the tiny socket for the second catch.  "That was a lotta talk earlier; now you gotta pay up."

"What am I doing?" groans Prowl, even as his spike plate transforms back and his spike pressurises, sliding neatly against Jazz' valve mesh like it knew where was meant to go. "Flirting with you over comms was bad enough..." 

"That weren't fraggin’  _ flirtin' _ " grumbles Jazz, hitching his hips up until the thick tip of Prowl's spike noses against his anterior node. If he just shifted his hips like this, then...

Oh. That  was the right stuff -  the way Prowl's spike sunk in deeply on the first pass, driven by Jazz' own weight and the slickness of his mesh. Both of them shiver momentarily, and the  Prowl braces hiis pedes a little further apart so he has a more stable base to thrust from, pinioning Jazz against the wall. 

Jazz is too ramped up; from his dance, the bump and purr of the music, from his overload and Prowl's filthy mouth. His charge still burns high, too high to be dissipated by one overload, and ever part of him feels sensitive and raw and delicious. He's better for little more than clinging to broad shoulders and moaning, flinging open his comm frequency to sob Prowl's designation, smirking privately as Prowl abruptly shoves his face against of Jazz' headlights to hide his energon-pink flush. 

It’s gratifying to feel this stoic mech tremble and break a little each time with his cries, feel how his charge skyrockets which every punishing thrust. He's so close already, brimming with excess energy, and Jazz has had enough of delayed gratification for one night.  He tightens his thighs around Prowl's waist to encourage the deeper thrusts and tilts his hips just right so the next thrust scores a direct line up every sensor. 

"Primus!" He wails and falls to shivering pieces, the burn of overload roaring through his fuses, brutal numbness followed closely by excruciating pleasure that leaves him sobbing and whining.  Prowl keeps fragging him, the way he knows Jazz likes, to overwhelm his sensors with pleasure until he begs for mercy. If any mech had wandered into the corridor now, Jazz can only delight in imagining what they would see - his own lithe glittery frame held up and pinned by a bulkier mech, fragging him mercilessly. No doubt someone could hear the clatter off their armour shunting together, or the panting cries that spilled from his vocaliser uncontrollably as he  was taken so delightfully. Prowl had been so right before - no one else could reduce Jazz to this needy broken down mess, and he loved it.

Evidently Prowl appreciates it too, for within a few more brutal thrusts, the mech gasps brokenly against Jazz'  glittering bumper and the sensitive, twinging nodes deep in Jazz’ valve are soothed by the thick heat of his climax. Gravity draws him fully down on Prowl's spike, filling out every spare inch, and he can't help the trembling that rakes through his struts with this last bolt of pleasure.

It doesn’t last for long - Prowl doesn't like much touch after his overload, claiming oversensitivity, and this is no exception. Jazz finds himself being gently lifted up, ankles unhooked from across his mech's spinal struts. His hydraulics are wobbly when he is set to his pedes, but luckily he is already leant against the wall. Shivers overcome his struts again as lubricant and transfluid soak down his meshes to mix with the glitter on his thighs in an obscene mess and he has to fight a grimace as he transforms his valve cover back across.

Prowl leans in as close as he can without actually touching, so that the heat blasting from his vents almost feels like a lover's petting over Jazz' skimpy plating, and smiles the private silly little smile he only wears after Jazz has blown some of his fuses.

It is more endearing that it has any right to be.

"I might have gotten a little carried away," says Prowl, as close to sheepish as he could be.

There's no one close enough on his scanners to overhear, and the new thumping beats from the stage would hide their quiet words from anyone but the most determined eavesdropper. If any-mech did appear suddenly, all they'd see was a pretty dancer clearly trying to earn a few extra credits.

"DId ya hear me complainin'?" chides Jazz, reaching out to brush a patch of transferred glitter of the mech's hood and wincing as a big flake of black paint shifted as well. "Who did this paintwork? Ya'll have to have a full detail afore Sunstreaker sees it or he'll explode."

"It was a rush job. I suspected that the punters were not likely to be under much scrutiny and time was of the essence. I have more than one reason for being here."

"Aside from the motivation of getting to frag me silly against a public wall in skimpy armour, what's the other reason?" says Jazz, amused as Prowl flushes prettily again.

"In all honesty, I did not come here  _ intending _ to frag you up against a wall," says Prowl. "But I would argue that you're hard to resist when you dance the way you do."

"Best review I've had in a while," teases Jazz. "I'll get that written on a poster, I think."

Prowl chuckles softly and kisses him once, soft and sweet and the antithesis of the filthy, degrading words he had whispered across Jazz' comms from the moment he had stepped onto the stage. When they draw apart, Jazz gets to watch fondly as the tactician shakes himself back into business mode.

"Intelligence suggests that the Decepticons are leaving this sector within the orn," said Prowl. "They are planning underhanded tactics to convince their neutral allies that we have forced their servo. We are evacuating operatives through the sector."

"I hope I'm the only one gettin’ this sort of evacuation order?" He shakes himself as well, so his plating settles more comfortably. Nothing but a good oil bath would get the glitter from out of his hip-joints.

"The owner is likely a decent source of information, and the sort of mech that might up and disappear if, say, his livelihood was about to move away. I had hoped you would help me with a little interrogation." 

Jazz pretends to pout that his fun is being spoiled, but with two good overloads still ricocheting through his frame he can't pretend for long. Especially not with Prowl carefully transforming his back plates so his door wings swing up and free, arrogant and handsome and asking Jazz to come with him and sow chaos.

"Let's blow this joint," grins Jazz and un-subspaces his knife. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> An impressive trade in 'Topaz' posters springs up amongst the Autobots. 
> 
> Prowl 'confiscates' a choice selection. For research. Probably.


End file.
